Hell of a Horse

by Barbara Neville

  “Match the arrowhead,” he says, pulling a one-ounce sized nugget out of his pocket and showing it to us under the table. “All the big ones is stamped.”

  “Holy shit,” I say.

  “They’s a bunch,” he says. “Need to take our whole string of hosses up there to get ‘em out. We left Bigan and Góshé to load up War Chief. We already got a pretty good trail bed worked in, from hikin’ up and back. It’s settin’ up good.”

  “Bigan and Góshé are doin’ all the work, huh?” I say.

  “They like hard work,” says Güero, tossing down a shot. “And, we saw Angus tracks goin’ up and back. Needed to check on you.”

  I shake my head. “I already got these two bodyguards.”

  Z and Táági grin.

  “Hey,” says Güero. “Besides the horses, we had to come down to watch you shoot that bastard.”

  I snort. “Good thing y’all got me around to protect you.”

  They don’t even blink.

  “Anyhow, since you got it all covered, we’re gonna rent a few extry pack saddles and head back up to he’p the kid. Kids.” He turns to Táági. “Oh, big guy, we need a coupla trunks. Maybe four, not big, but sturdy, be about a hundred-pound load in each.”

  “Rather a lot, eh?” says the big guy. “It shall be done.”

  “Not rent saddles,” says Ma’cho. “We pack on back.”

  “Rumor mill?” asks Güero.

  “Moccasin telegraph,” says Ma’cho. “Afoot or tie on horse Injin style.”

  Güero sips at his beer as he thinks that over.

  “Pass me that there book again,” I say, tossing back my whiskey.

  “Have you read it?” Z asks, looking at me. Pointedly, I’d say.

  “Maybe not all of it,” I say, returning her look. Shit.

  The big guy hands me the book. I leaf through. There’s a picture. And some words about exceptional barefoot runners.

  I read aloud, “The Rarámuri are called Tarahumara by the Spanish.” I scan a while. “They drink tesguino, a low alcohol corn beer in quantity to fuel their endurance. They need tons of calories to keep going for their exceptional barefoot runs.”

  Ma'cho grunts. “Tesguino, like my people.”

  “Yep. That’s tiswin in English,” I say, scanning ahead. “Their runners have been known to go as far as four hundred miles in forty-eight hours. Fuck me. Four hundred miles? Wow.”

  Ma'cho leans over to read that for himself. “By the spirits,” he says.

  “Okay, I see the runnin’ deal,” I say. “But these Rarámuri, they have skin like me or Ma'cho. They don’t have skin as black as the ace of spades.”

  “You bloody buggering bitch,” Zastee counters.

  “Shit, sorry,” I say, holding up a palm in surrender. “I’m being too blunt. I’m just curious. Please tell me about your cultural background.”

  She looks tough, closed in.

  “I showed my hand, already,” I say. “How about you, big guy?”

  “I’m a bloody Viking Norseman. Viking and white as snow, both sides. There it is.”

  “Hey, what about Viking pride?”

  “What about bloody me? Big rewards for capture. Dead or alive, eh?” he says. “Not a good place to be.”

  “Exactly, that bloody reward,” says Zastee. “On my father’s side, I’m Rarámuri. Also called Tarahumara; but I’m also Barabra, or Nubian. Yes, as Mose said, African. That’s where my bloody dark skin originates.” She rubs at the back of her hand. “With, perhaps, a touch of Melanesia to add to the blue of the blackness. My other half is Viking. My esteemed mother was a pasty skinned Norsewoman. The polar opposite of me. My brothers and even dad are all lighter than me. I’m always the bloody odd man out.”

  “I was, too, a gringo in a Hispanic and Injin world,” I admit. “Save for Pa. For the opposite reason, I was by far the lightest. So is Güero.”

  Güero pats my knee and says, “Yep. I’m the official paleface among my siblin’s. Pa’s the only one lighter. He don't give a shit. My sibs teased me, still do, no end. Don’t bother me one bit, just good fun. And, ironically, mah twin here is the darkest of we six siblings. We’re Mescalero on Ma’s side and Viking on Pa’s.”

  Ma'cho grins. “Happy with any skin. Hard to live without skin.”

  “You betcha, me too,” says Güero, leaning over to peck my cheek. “You rest up, get healed. We gotta hit it. We’re goin’ with the redskin’s plan. We’ll catch up to y’all later.”

  “Cheers,” says Táági.

  Ma’cho grins, squeezes my hand unobtrusively under the table, and the pair head out.

  Zastee nods and says, “Yeah. When my bloody family used to kid me about my dark skin, they always mentioned woodpiles.”

  I blurt, “As in nigger in?”

  She grimaces.

  “It’s so superficial. Just melanin, skin tone,” I say. “And yeah, yore skin is exceptionally dark. Right? And very beautiful. I mean, come on. Hey, I gotta pee. You ready for a lady tour of the lavish indoor facilities?”

  Making an ugly face, she grudgingly follows me into the lady’s room. We pee and wash our hands in front of the full-length mirror.

  “Ebony and Ivory,” I say, looking at our reflections. “You look nice.”

  She wipes a tear and sniffles. It seemed the obvious comment, but apparently not. I should be nicer; the teenage years are tough. Not sure what I said wrong. I search for the right retort. All I can think is that her friend must be visiting. Hello hormones.

  “Mine, unfortunately, is very white. It’s not judgment, it’s fact. Yes?”

  She tightens her lips into a grim line, then relaxes. “Fuck, no. Despite my attempts at rude humor, yours is a medium brown, not white.”

  “Seriously?”

  She nods emphatically, then raises her hands. “But mine is bloody awful.”

  “Yours is an exotic blue-black. Exotic is good.”

  She frowns at her reflection.

  “People come in all colors. Don’t take it wrong. I don’t give a fuck about what other people think. I like variety. Yore skin is beautiful.”

  She looks at both of us, side by side. A little grin escapes. “Bloody hell. Alright, I guess you are being sincere. I apologize for being short with you. I’m glad to be back among people who can actually see the humor in the bloody silly external differences between people. It’s bloody scarce around these parts.”

  “No matter what we do, we’ll always be the fuckin’ high contrast twins,” I say.

  “Bloody fucking hell, that’s what I was thinking,” she says. “We bloody well are. Most people can’t see past skin color. It’s bloody nice that you do.”

  I laugh and say, “Yore as bad as Táági. Bloody this and bloody that all fucking day long.”

  “Bloody fucking straight.”

  “This could turn out to be a beautiful friendship,” I say, putting an arm around her shoulder and squeezing. Not sure why, but I do feel a kinship with this tall, skinny outlaw bitch.

  She laughs, putting an arm around my ribcage and squeezes back gently. “Too bloody right.”

  I take a good look into the reflection of her startling eyes in the mirror. They have bright red molten lava around the lens, shading off to an orange-yellow. All surrounded by charcoal grey; like cold, hard lava. Tough as nails. Ready to support the weight of the entire planet.

  She’s looking back at mine.

  “Your eyes are purple,” she says. “Like the evening sky.”

  “Really?”

  She nods.

  “They are, love,” says Táági, who has snuck in behind us.

  “Yore much whiter than either of us,” I tell him. “Say, do you always use this particular restroom, Lady Táági?”

  “I bloody well am,” he says, looking at the three of us in the full-length mirror and turning sideways, posing comically. “Kind of oddly shaped for a lady, am I?”

  “Especially in the groinal area,” I say.

  Zastee t
urns to Táági. “Your eyes are beautiful. The deep, dark blue of glacial ice.”

  “Amazing, aren’t they?” I say.

  “They’re just bloody eyes,” says Táági, putting a hand on each of our shoulders. “And our various skins, as Ma'cho said, are just fucking skins.”

  “Gawds above,” I say. “You hate to be special.”

  “Too bloody right,” he says. “The last thing a wanted man needs is to stand out.”

  “Sadly, true,” I say, thinking of myself. And the kid. And my almost lynched first husband. Yikes.

  Zastee’s watching us.

  “But yore eyes, Zastee, are volcanic,” I say, turning to look again. “Molten lava. Too hot to handle.”

  She grins and taking my jaw in her dark hand; turns my face to hers for a light, lingering, kiss.

  Holy shit.

  112 The Buss

  We break apart.

  “No, I can’t do this,” I say, backpedaling. “I can’t trust you. You have an agenda. Yore a rat, an assassin. A jeezly bitch. If nothin’ else, yore just tryin’ to weasel in on Táági and me.”

  “Zastee and I have had a talk,” says Táági, eyes bright with what can only be described as desire. “A slow, careful private talk, during which she has decided to give it a try.”

  The big guy is a lady killer. Well, not killer, you know what I mean. He has a way with us gals.

  “Holy cow,” I say, looking at her, then back at him. “You two?”

  Táági nods.

  Zastee’s cheeks redden just a tad. Her eyes are hooded. She bites her lip then relaxes and licks it. She glances at Táági, who nods almost imperceptibly.

  “Why not have me in for a visit?” she asks. Her eyes blazing with intent.

  I look at him. He raises his eyebrows.

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  “Miss ‘I Hate Men’? Really?”

  She nods at the floor.

  And find myself embarrassed, too. I look down, thinking.

  His warm fingers touch mine lightly. I steal a quick glance at his eager face. And take his hand in mine.

  “I’d a bit of loose cash, love,” he says. “Booked the largest suite in the house.”

  The gold digger’s bankroll had been mostly large bills. Plus, the pawn shop owner had paid handsomely for the diamond necklace. The party would be on her.

  Since no one is around, he takes Zastee’s hand, too, and leads us down the back hall and up a flight of stairs. And down another long hall into a grand room with an oversize bed.

  Sure, Táági and I talked about it, but I thought me and two men. And now it’s me and them. One cock, two vaginas.

  But, her kiss? Not bad at all. Luscious, actually.

  I’m flustered.

  “Your choice, love,” says Táági leading me over by the bed. “Only me?”

  I hesitate.

  “How about I bloody start while you decide.” He puts tender lips on mine.

  Such a clever devil.

  We kiss a while. He slowly undresses me, kissing and touching all my favorite spots. And lays me down.

  I lay there eyes closed, relaxed, thinking. Or trying to.

  Soon he’s got me all hot and bothered. With a parting kiss, he moves away.

  I hear rustling and look over at…them.

  Z, naked, and Táági are in the midst of a tender embrace.

  They pull apart slowly and Táági leads her by the hand to the bed. He kisses her again and then me.

  Slowly but surely, he weakens our defenses. Such a lovely man.

  After while, she pushes her herself up on an elbow and leans in to me. She hesitantly puts her lips on mine. It’s a heartfelt kiss. Táági is fondling my breasts.

  And the last thing I ever expected begins.

  113 Cha’a: Wild Abandon

  There’s a knock at the door. We freeze.

  “Not to worry, ladies. Room service.”

  Táági gets up. Pulling the sheet over Z’s head, he wraps himself in a towel and opens it.

  A silver tray with champagne flutes and a couple of fancy bottles is passed in. The big guy even thought to have oyster hors d’oeuvres included.

  We share a bite and a drink and return to bed.

  It’s a night of wild abandon.

  I’m gasping for breath. My body lunging, screaming for it to stop. Pleading for release. It’s unbearable.

  “No, no,” I say, “Don’t stop. Please, please don’t stop.”

  It goes on and on. We wrestle and make love and switch and roll around. And give and take. All night long.

  Hours later, Táági gets up and drags himself, one slow step at a time, into the bathroom.

  I hear the shower start and go in to join him. Zastee is already in there. It all starts again. In wet mode.

  An hour later, Táági says, “Uncle, loves. I can’t do anything else. I need nourishment.”

  Zastee, seemingly as fresh as the morning dew, throws on a shirt and pants, and trots downstairs.

  She returns with a tray; coffee, mugs, danish. We eat like ravenous crows and fall back onto each other to rest and wait for more.

  “What the hell happened to us?” I ask.

  “Ménage, love,” he says. “The best I’ve ever had.”

  “What about you, love?” asks Zastee, tapping on the uninjured side of my ribs.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “That’s bloody it?” asks Táági.

  “I never imagined anything could be that awesome,” I say.

  “Even with me?” asks Zastee.

  “Even? Yore amazing, Z,” I say.

  “You bloody well are, Z,” says Táági, running a finger down her cheek.

  “I just did what felt good,” she says.

  “You damn sure did,” I say. “And, I should tell you, the big guy here is always amazing.”

  “I do feel like I was bloody well on song,” he says. “But say no more, you’ll swell my head.”

  “I’d rather swell something else,” I say, impishly.

  “Too bloody soon,” he says, grinning at me.

  “Don’t worry, I’m too weak to grasp it,” I say.

  “Oh,” says Zastee, reaching a hand in from the other side of him. “Let me.”

  His eyes widen in alarm.

  “Wait, no,” I say, putting a hand over the joint in question. “We don’t want to fuck him to death in the first go round.”

  “First?” he says. “If all of that was just one go round, I bloody well won’t have a second in me for weeks.”

  Z, grinning, props herself on an elbow and leans across the sexually weakened Viking to kiss me.

  Fortunately for my own weakened condition, our ranchers’ breakfast arrives just in time.

  We dig in.

  114 Cha’a: Four

  I drag myself out of bed, pleasantly satisfied. Man did I miss my men. And women? I never knew I cared.

  I head out to see what the others are up to. Z goes with me. Subdued now, glowing.

  “What do you think about men now?” I ask.

  “Bloody gawds above,” she says.

  “Is that good?” I elbow her.

  “You do it with four?”

  I shrug. “One at a time.”

  “Still.”

  “They’re all awesome in their own ways.”

  “But, it seems so complicated.”

  “It started with one, Güero. Ma’cho kept teasing us and talking about the non-monogamous Apache way,” I say. “And, heck, he’s sexy as hell.”

  “But what about Güero?’

  “Surprised the hell outta me,” I say. “He was happy to share with his brother.”

  Bigan comes up the stairs and walks over to join us, favoring me with a good morning kiss. I hold his warm hand.

  “The twins and Dog boy took off early. Hoss went with them,” he says. “We can catch up.”

  “You bet.” I turn back to Z. “Anyhow, then, I had two. And somehow, I managed to slip into bed
with the big guy,” I say, grinning at her. “Might have been his doing.”

  Bigan grins at this and chuckles.

  “He’s a bloody prince,” she says.

  “You noticed?”

  She chuckles, too.

  Bigan glances at her and back at me, grinning like a horny wolf.

  “You know?” I ask.

  He nods, holding back a laugh, I’m thinking.

  Kissing my cheek, he says, “The big guy might’ve let it slip.”

  “Not surprised.”

  He grins.

  “Anyhow,” I continue. “Once the three of us got together, we decided we needed a slave, so we kidnapped Bigan. Not an actual slave, an indentured servant. He owes us for getting him to safety after he let me escape with him from prison.”

  Zastee looks at Bigan, concerned.

  “That’s bullshit,” he says. “No way could she live without me. I’m her favorite.”

  He turns to me, placing his hook under my jaw to lift my chin. “Right, babe?”

  “But, it was such an awesome line of bullshit,” I say, shaking my head in disgust.

  I do as he suggests; and reward him with a lingering kiss.

  “Kudos to the winner,” I say, grinning up at him. “Kicked my whole slavery motif right in the ass.”

  Bigan shakes his head in chagrin, but the smile I can see breaking out on his face reveals his true feelings.

  Táági comes out of the hotel, moving slowly, and stands by Zastee on the boardwalk. After checking that no townsfolk are watching, he favors her with a quick peck on the cheek.

  He hugs and kisses me and shakes hands with Bigan, who says, “That limp due to a groin injury?”

  “Bloody likely, brother,” says the big guy, looking pained.

  “Our freight is boarded. The trunks are in the strongbox in the mail car,” says Bigan. “You’d best get down and board, or they’ll get home before you.”

  Táági nods. “We’re on our bloody way, kid.”

  “Yeah, looks like it’ll be a long walk,” says Bigan, dryly.

  The kid leads me out into the street, where our two barebacked horses are tied at the hitching rail, eyes open, asleep.

  He checks the headstalls, unties and holds Ten Spot and gives me a leg up.